Patient's Name
by KLMeri
Summary: FH!verse series of one-shots about the Captain's crew. - COMPLETE
1. Scott, Montgomery

**Title**: Patient's Name...

**Author**: klmeri

**Fandom**: Star Trek AOS

**Characters: **Various

**Disclaimer**: Borrowing the characters, that's all.

**Summary**: FH!verse one-shot. Part of a series.

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**Can be read as a stand-alone series; follows the Fleet Heights 'verse: _A World of Crazy _and its sequel _Never Lost Just Found._**

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Patient's Name: Scott, Montgomery

"[...] Kirk has tested each one of them, as they arrived—though Scotty is the exception because he was here before Kirk and that was a very, very long time ago."_ - A World of Crazy_

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Just start talking. Talk as if someone is listening and plans to reply to each of your questions. (How does that clock know what time it is? Is rain clear or blue? Will Momma get mad if I take another cookie?) It's simply, really, and a game Monty loves to play. Until, that is, someone _does_ join the conversation. It's a small dark little man with a craggy voice (like a smoker) and a face to match.

The person introduces himself as Keenser.

Monty is six years old, curious and accepting of his new friend.

What does it matter if no one can see him but Monty?

The adults think it's funny—that he's funny—when he talks to Keenser. Momma even sets an extra place at the kitchen table that very first night, says "Sure, baby, one for you and one for Keenser." He likes the way his mother's eyes smile, when she leans over to kiss his forehead; he thinks she smells like flowers (however flowers are supposed to smell; really nice, he guesses).

His other friends don't find Keenser good company, because they cannot see him and are bad at pretending that they can. Monty stubbornly refuses to ignore his new friend—even if he's old (he's wise)—so his best friend Danny pushes him down (he won't cry, he won't because Keenser is watching) and calls him stupid.

At school, it's no better; as soon as the other first-graders learn of his "imaginary friend" from Danny, they laugh at him and won't include him in games. That is no fun, not the jeers or name-calling. It's not his fault Keenser refuses to show himself to other people. Monty's special is all. Very special, and he nurses his little hurts with that knowledge.

Daddy doesn't think it's so funny, like Momma, but says nothing; later he and Momma raise their voices over it and Monty has to hide his head under the pillow and whisper secretly to Keenser how much he doesn't like yelling. For the first time, Keenser seems sympathetic to his little boy feelings. His friend squats down in front of him, as Monty peeks from under the pillow and says it's okay to be scared.

He believes, then, that Keenser is a good friend—and will be, for a long time to come.

As he grows up, he learns that most people do not look fondly upon his "imaginary friend." In school, he keeps quiet in the back of the classroom and scribbles his questions down to Keenser in a notebook. That's how they communicate—Monty writing, as to not draw attention to his friend who isn't supposed to be with him, and Keenser talking all he wants because nobody but Monty is privileged enough to have his friendship.

Momma goes from tolerant and amused to worried. Sometimes she asks questions in a very quiet voice, "Is Keenser with you today, Monty?" or "I wish you'd tell me why he is your friend. Or maybe Dr. Vandenburg. Can you tell him?" He tries to be honest with his mother, even though his answers hurt her sometimes and that makes him sad.

Dr. Vandenburg is another story. Monty does NOT like him, the way the man tries to poke into his private thoughts (secrets with Keenser) and he does not like the way the doctor's office is always cold. (And there's that little jar of candy, but the candy is old and tastes like a medicine Monty has to take when he's sick.) But Monty has to talk to the doctor (Is he really a doctor?) once a month because his dad won't take no for an answer and drags him out to the car. It's a stubborn struggle they go through every time, but Monty always gives in when his father starts getting angry after he begs not to go and his mother holds a hand to her mouth. Dad usually apologizes later for being upset and Monty forgives him. Their relationship isn't bad, he admits to Keenser one night before falling asleep, it's just awkward.

He keeps getting older and more stubborn about Keenser. Never talks about his friend to anyone but close family, who sometimes just laugh or sometimes go really quiet, depending on the person; there's one particularly aggravating cousin who wants Keenser to come out of the closet. Monty's tried explaining that Keenser doesn't live in the closet, but that does no good because Cecy just wants to laugh at him.

Social activities are hard, because he feels that he has lost the ability to communicate with his peers. No one understands the sort of wise things that Keenser does, and no one pays much attention to Monty so long as he remains that silent kid who does C-average schoolwork and doesn't really bother anybody. Doesn't mean he forgets to notice others; no, not at all. He's a watcher—sees the kind of groups the kids form around him. And girls get more beautiful as they grow up, radiant like the sun in a sweet kind of way (except when they laugh at him like all the rest). Just when he thinks no one will ever notice him but Keenser—that sixteen is a lonely age, a dark-haired girl with too much eye-makeup and a small smile sits next to him in math class. She's nice and silent like him, spends a lot of her time drawing funny faces in her textbook. He pretends to ignore her but it's hard (and suddenly he doesn't spare a thought for Keenser). The day she actually greets him—after two weeks of sitting side-by-side—his heart goes _bump _in his chest and that's a new experience.

She seems to think he writes stories in his notebook and he never tells her otherwise (rarely speaks). She seems to think he's shy (okay, he is) and that's that a sweet thing. Her name is Mira—pretty name, that—and she asks him out on a date. He scribbles_ yes_ in his notebook, shows her and her eyes smile like his mother's.

It's the only date they ever have because while it starts out well enough—Scotty carefully driving his father's old car and Mira in her pink sweater, with glittering eyes—Keenser won't leave them alone. He's there, in the backseat, waiting while they stop for a bite to eat at a local diner. He's still waiting, silent (for once) and watching, when Mira gets Monty to stop the car along the side of the road and leans over to kiss his cheek. His hands might have trembled but he kept clutching the steering wheel really hard.

She says to him, "You're strange, but that's okay, Monty."

Then Keenser calls, out-of-the-blue, _she's lying to you_ and he is so surprised—and upset—that he half-turns and yells "She's not a liar!"

That's that, and Mira is startled. Doesn't understand. He cannot lie (lying is wrong) and attempts to explain but she still doesn't (won't) understand. "He's saying a-awful things about y-you, and I just c-can't—"

"Who is?"

No use. Monty drops his head down and offers, "I can take ya home." It's a whisper, but she hears it well enough. Mira tells him that she does want to go home. So the date ends, rather sadly when it could have been sweet (but for Keenser) and Monday the chair next to him is empty. It stays that way until Keenser waddles up, climbs into it and apologizes for hurting his chances with Mira. Monty eventually forgives him.

Things improve somewhat when he's an old seventeen (old to him) and his father discovers that Monty has an intuitive feeling for the family business. So they start bonding over various jobs—which is fine because Keenser never comes along for those trips (he thinks they're boring) and Monty gets to spend time piecing thing together. That soothes him, somehow; he understands how the system supposed to work, can direct its flow as he pleases. It's a matter of proper sealant, a few well-placed bolts and a map of right angles. It's easy, good. His Dad thinks it's good too and that's even better.

The problem starts when Keenser decides he doesn't want to stay home when Monty goes on jobs. It's early in the morning and he's fishing out a wrench from a toolbox for his father when a familiar shadow comes barreling around the corner of the client's house. It's his friend, who stops two feet away and watches him with those beady dark eyes.

He almost drops the wrench. "Keenser, what're ya doin' here?"

Keenser smiles and Monty is distracted from his friend's reply when his father calls out from the basement, "Need that tool, son!"

"A'right!" he calls back. Before he goes down into the dark, he tells Keenser to go back home 'cause he's busy.

Keenser never does leave. Not after that.

He tries to ignore him, but finally gives in. After all, hasn't Keenser been his faithful companion since grade school? Haven't they always shared everything, even the darkest secrets? (No one knows more about Monty than Keenser does.) So he tries to do his work and entertain Keenser at the same time.

His father isn't happy, and Monty's sorry that he is unhappy. But Dad just tells him, "Keep quiet when the customer's around."

He does. He really does, but then something bad happens. He's chatting away, working on a set of pipes, and fails to see the shadow in the doorway. Keenser blinks, lets him know that he's not alone (Dad's gone on an emergency job), and suddenly there's that old woman nobody likes—no matter what his Momma says,_ nobody likes Ms. Tate 'cause she's mean_.

That's the beginning of the end, because the woman causes problems in the neighborhood and later with the local authorities. She insists to her friends that "that Scott boy ought to be locked up, everybody knows Bella and Henry cannot keep him straight." She makes him sound dangerous when he's not; it makes his Momma cry awful hard when people come to the house and ask questions. Even his father is sad.

His mother pleads with him to lie, to "pretend everything's alright, pretend you're okay, baby." He wants to try, for her sake, but lying's wrong. When the questions get repeated, time and again, and people watch him like he's a bad person (scare him), he looks for Keenser (for help) and they just sigh, keep writing on their pads.

Monty is taken away from his family and placed in a big old building called Fleet Heights. They want him to swallow hard little pills and talk to strangers about Keenser. It's a cycle of days that depress him; it's three months before he gets to see his mother's face again. She is as unhappy as he is, he can tell.

Things change when a kind-faced man named Pike takes over for the retired supervisor. Mr. Pike introduces himself, begins to spend time with Monty, attempting to talk about things other than Keenser and "you know you're crazy, face it." He almost believes that one day he'll actually talk back. Then Pike is gone for a long period of days and when he finally reappears, the man looks sad and much too old. Monty doesn't know how to approach him, so he doesn't and just sits in his room with Keenser. It's lonely, but no one bothers him overly much.

Life has a way of changing, in the blink of an eye, Monty knows. The day that Pike suddenly stops by his room, knocks politely and asks, "May I sit with you, son?" Monty is sure that something is about to happen.

"I have a… new patient arriving soon. He's young, much younger than you."

Monty nods to show that he understands.

"And he's lonely like you are. It would mean a great deal to me, Mr. Scott, if you would meet him."

He doesn't think that patients are supposed to interact with each other (at least that's what Puri told his parents, he remembers) but Pike is nice enough.

Keenser is watching them both, and when Monty asks the silent question, the little dark man gives his approval. Okay, then.

Pike smiles (it's tired, that smile) and thanks him.

Turns out the boy's name is Jim. Jim is lonely, has to be Monty thinks that first time he sees James Kirk. He is strapped to his bed (Monty doesn't know why) and has his eyes closed. Monty takes extra care to make noise announcing his presence; that face is so thin and sad (devastated) that it hurts Monty to look directly at him.

Those eyes open and reveal blue like the summer sky. The boy (has to be years younger than Monty) speaks in a quiet voice, "Are you real?"

Monty nods.

"W'ats y-your name?" The voice is slurred, probably from too much bad medicine. He watches as the kid pulls at his straps once, tiredly, before giving up.

He doesn't know why but it seems okay to answer that soft question. "M'name's Montgomery," he mumbles.

"Oh. I'm Jimmy—Jim. C-call me... Jim."

He nods again.

They are silent, then, until Pike comes in and ushers Monty out into the hall. "You'll come back tomorrow?" It's not an order, he understands, but still a plea.

So he does. He keeps visiting Jim until the boy is finally released, able to get up and move about. They never do talk much, until one day when Jim awkward settles beside him at the cafeteria table. (The child's still painfully thin, doesn't eat much.)

"Hey."

Monty ducks his head.

Those blue eyes are watching him. "Are you crazy too?"

How to answer that? "Keenser," he says shortly and knows that that makes no sense.

"Who's Ken-Keenser?" The way Jim says that name is funny so he repeats in slowly until Jim can say it just right. There's a small smile—like a hint of something bright peeking out—on Jim's face. "Keenser. Okay, who is he?"

Monty tries to explain (like always), "He's my friend."

"Where is he?"

Monty drops his head, mumbles and points at Keenser across the table. "There."

Jim stares across the table for a long time. "Oh, okay. Hello, Keenser."

Yes, Monty was right. Things are changing (inexplicably); for the first time since he was a child, someone greets Keenser too. Then Jim turns back to him with that tiny little (growing) smile, "I don't like Montgomery; it's long. What's your nickname?" The kid offers, "Jim is short for James."

"Name's Monty," he replies but Jim is wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. What's wrong with Monty?

"Sounds like a horse's name."

He stares. "I'm not a horse."

"So what's your name?"

"Monty Scott."

There's a brief pause, then finally, "Scotty."

"Scotty?"

"Yeah." The kid—Jim—leans in closer. "Scotty, wanna be the first to join my crew?"

"You've got a crew?"

"Not unless you join. It's a starship crew." Those blue eyes are watching him, bright (so bright), even though the face is pale and hollow. Jim adds, "Keenser can join too."

Well, that's alright then. Yes, Monty—no, Scotty—knows that where there is an end, there is a beginning too.


	2. Uhura, Nyota P

**After much deliberation, this is expanding to become a series of one-shots centered around the Captain's crew. **

**Next up…**

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Patient's Name: **Uhura, Nyota P.**

"[...] I don't know what to do if I can't be in the Captain's crew!" - _A World of Crazy_

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Nyota almost burns down her fifth boyfriend's house. Rather, she sets a fire and her initial plan falls apart.

She's in love with him and he wants to break up a good thing. That's bad. More than bad… it's painful. He knows how much she loves him (doesn't she tell him often enough?). Oh yes, that gorgeous, heartless son of the bitch _knows_.

He says she's a beautiful, insane bitch. He says she's too paranoid ("I told you I went out with the guys… don't ever fucking follow me like that again!") and that he can't take her brand of weird-ass crazy.

Nyota does not care. Isn't it her right to know where he is? They're supposed to be together. Is it so wrong to want to be close to him (never let go)? They're made for each other, she and he_—need _each other.

That's the way it's supposed to be, between soulmates.

When she is alone, her mind won't settle. People are watching her—all the time, watching, trying to figure out why such a pretty girl is all alone.

So she keeps calling his cellphone but he won't pick up. She goes to his house but his mother says he isn't home. (That's a lie; she sees his bike leaning against the side of the house.) His buddies won't tell her where he is (goes, without her, all the fucking time).

Nyota is upset, wild in her anger and disappointment.

Then, when she's parked two blocks down in her cousin's car, she sees him. Walking home, that long-legged cocky stroll.

He's not alone.

There's a girl—some fucking _skank_—with her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, groping the ass of Nyota's man. She watches them go inside his mother's house. Watches and plans, because if there is anything Nyota Uhura is good at, it's planning.

Everybody in the neighborhood knows how brilliant she is. Her family knows, is proud of all her school achievements and the sharp bright-eyed photos of their Nyota accepting numerous awards. All through junior high and high school, into the local community college. She's smart, lovely and going places they tell her. Going to be somebody important.

Nyota likes to tighten her hands on the steering wheel until her knuckles are bloodless. It's cathartic, a way to ease the rage that builds inside her sometimes. People make her so mad, always watching and judging. (Doesn't she do her best? Always her best and then some?)

Her mother doesn't understand why Nyota cannot maintain a relationship with a guy for more than a few months. She thinks that Nyota picks assholes for boyfriends (maybe she does, she admits). What's she supposed to say? That they leave her because they cannot grasp how important love is? Two people, in-love, should be one; always together.

Ironically, the only thing that Nyota and her mother have in common (besides their lovely eyes) is that they both hate to watch a man walk away. Like her own father. How Mama raged over that for months, seethed and slammed doors, broke things. Uhura—just a young girl, then—felt the woman's hatred soaking her skin, hated him too—for hurting her mother and herself.

Yet she needs a man to keep her balanced.

He wants to leave her? Fine. She'll burn all those things she bought him, the tokens of her affection. He doesn't deserve to keep them. _They're meant for a man who loves her!_

His room faces the south-end of the small house. The window latch is broken, she remembers, because she kept bothering him about getting it fixed. ("How can you feel safe, if you can't lock the criminals out?") Well, that's her ticket. So she waits until Friday night, when his mother and father go out for Bingo and her boyfriend—soon-to-be-ex—won't even bother coming home. He likes to party on a Friday night. (Another way he wouldn't concede to her; Nyota likes to be alone and cuddle, not party, and he hates that. Fuck him.)

There is no alarm system. No, his family is too poor for that, like everybody else in the neighborhood. Well, not Mr. Robbins two blocks down—he's loaded, Nyota is pretty sure because she "accidentally" got some of his mail and wouldn't you know it, the man gets letters from big-name brokerage corporations in downtown Atlanta. (Uhura likes to know something about everybody.)

It's easy enough, in dark clothes, to blend into the shadows. She's good at the spy game, been doing it since she was little. Used to lie under people's porches, listening to the sound of their voices in the house—tried to hear words. People call her curious; think it's because she is so smart that she needs to know everything. And that's true, mostly. Nyota likes to know what's going on, who's going where and keeps a close eye on all her friends. The best part is that they don't know how much she knows about their lives; won't because she is so careful.

That's her mistake, of course—losing her cool, but she didn't know it then. Couldn't think about anything but the betrayal of a man she loved.

Once she's inside his room, she collects all the items that are relevant to their two-month relationship and dumps the bundle into the bathtub. A bottle of lighter fluid and one or two matches. The blaze is quite beautiful, poetic, because that's how she feels on the inside. Let them all know.

Nyota'd planned on dousing the fire after a few minutes; it's not that she wants to ruin anything belonging to his parents. It's not their fault he's such a lying, cheating bastard. (Not really.) But she doesn't plan on the shower curtain catching fire, panics when it goes up in flames and there's no safe way to pull it down without burning her hands. Then the fire starts to lick along the ceiling, and that's when Nyota realizes everything is spinning out of control. She runs for safety and calls 911.

Watching the smoke leaking from the house as she stands across the street is frightening. Nyota does not hide. She waits until the firemen show up, barrelling through the narrow street, tells them about the fire in the bathroom and afterwards stands very still in the wail of the sirens. Neighbors are gathering along the broken sidewalk, parties and evening meals interrupted.

He comes running, her boyfriend, eyes wide and cursing a blue streak. The police have yet to arrive (it's Friday night, after all, and Atlanta is not a safe city, even during the day). The man she thought she could grow old with, wanted to, until he broke her heart yells at her, "You crazy bitch! What did you do?"

She's crying, then. "I don't know. I'm sorry_, I don't know!_"

That's what she tells the police as they cuff her hands behind her back. It's true, every word. She has no clue how things got so out-of-control in her life.

In the end, it's only her clean record and the pleading of family and lawyer friend that save her from a jail sentence.

"Nyota's such a good girl! Please, she was just accepted into a law school, please…"

"…the girl's sick, Judge…"

She doesn't argue when a certified criminal psychologist from the Department of Mental Health puts her through evaluation after evaluation. The questioning is extensive, invasive and sometimes strange.

How did you feel when your father left? Tell me about your boyfriends, Nyota. Why do you think you hate to be alone? Mr. Wilson—your neighbor, yes—mentioned a few strange incidents: You told him that the city lights were… bugged by the magistrate. Tell me about that. Do you often feel persecuted by others?

Nyota knows from her Psych 101 class (she's a linguistics major; likes to take other courses, just to learn) that the state of Georgia is aiming for a label like _paranoid schizophrenic_; to declare that is she is a danger to "normal" people. But she could go to jail otherwise, and so when Nyota Uhura is found not guilty by reason of insanity and placed at Fleet Heights, she tries to make do with the shreds of her life.

It's rather easy, actually, because there are a group of men—albeit crazy men—that are promising. (She'd be the only woman.) Nyota starts with a good-looking blond named Jim. Well, _Captain Kirk_, but that's just makes the challenge more interesting.

Her mother never visits; the last she hears—some months later, from a nosy sister-in-law—Mama moved away to North Carolina. Nyota understands that she is alone, just as she had feared. Captain Kirk extends her an offer for the position Head of Communications on the starship Enterprise and she accepts. Better to be a part of a motley crew than nothing at all.


	3. Chekov, Pavel

**Patient's Name: Chekov, Pavel**

"Are you telepathic like Spock?"

The kid's eyes go wide as he leans forward in anticipation. "Why yes, Doctor, I was born this way! In Russia, it is fact that children with natural curl are—" - _A World of Crazy_

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Pavel doesn't have parents. He is a bright-eyed little boy of over a hundred young children in a cramped Russian orphanage that is barely supported by the government. He does not stand out because there are too many children like him. Nothing is his own, not even the bed in which he sleeps; it's shared with another child similar in size (small) and Pavel lies awake at night thinking about what his parents might have been like. Who had the curly hair? Were they both blond? It's not until he grows much older, in America, that he realizes chances dictate that his mother was unwed and his father a nameless face. Such is life.

In the long hours of idling in a yard bare of much vegetation but teeming with children stomping their footprints into the dirt, Pavel begins to make up stories to entertainment himself. Turns out he has a great imagination; the bony dog that eats scraps from their hands becomes the _volk_ (wolf); or he will call out "_Medved! Medved!_" at the one-eyed man who brings the week's bag of harvest for their dinner. (The vegetables are always tasteless with age in his mouth; he hates them.) Others think he is funny, like his stories, and sometimes play along. Together, a group of them will scatter across the yard (the wildlands, Pavel insists) or cross the mighty Dvina river, which is merely a poorly dug trench bordering the northern property line.

They have fun, with this game of pretend, and Pavel enjoys every moment of his fame among a band of young children. He begins to make up more elaborate tales, sometimes when he should be studying his English reader; this often earns him a sharp knock from the scowling schoolmistress because "lying is for sinful children!" That's funny, her reaction. He doesn't stop. Pavel sticks out, in those moments, as the little Liar boy—which is okay, because it means that he is noticed and not another hunched blond head in a sea of them.

The orphanage is always full, and when children leave, more children immediately take their places. Pavel learns, one day, as his name is called that he is on the list for transport to Moscow. (How exciting!) Moscow is large, much larger than this country village of dirt and trees. It has buildings, they say. Tall buildings and color.

Pavel arrives in Moscow in the company of twenty young children, like himself; they are hustled into a large structure, have a fresh change of clothes (pretty blues, pinks, and yellows—not stained or torn from long use), and are fed a good meal. A man, a photographer he calls himself, asks them one by one to stand up straight and smile nicely for his camera. Each child has his picture taken—an image of youth, intelligence and hope. A lie, but Pavel does not mind that.

It's a waiting game afterwards. Pavel is old enough, by this point, to understand what the adults want from orphaned children. They want to get rid of them, quickly. The nice photographs and decent clothes are a lure for new parents, he knows. This is okay. Pavel has no parents and parents are supposed to be good for children. So he waits, like all the rest, until a woman in a dark coat takes his hand—after three weeks—and says "Pavel, come."

He smiles at her.

"You are lucky. You go with an American couple."

So he does.

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Good dreams never last. The American family is (mostly) smiles in the beginning. Pavel has a brother and a sister, both older and legitimate blood-offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Graves. Everybody is nice, Pavel goes to school in America, improves his English and learns that he loves french fries. But he is young, too young to compare to two teenage siblings and their drama. So if he tells a lie here or there, it's okay; it often works to get attention, if it is ridiculous enough.

Lauren, his sister, is apathetic about his existence. (Her feelings never change.) The boy—Georgie—hates that he has to share his bedroom with Pavel. In fact, he tells Pavel frequently "I hate you, you little fucker. Stay out of my things!" When his friends come over (and Pavel's trying to learn his English), they hang around the dinner table and make fun of his heavily accent reading. So he says things like "My father vas a Great Hunter of the Russian Black Bear; he could wrestle a bear this big—" Points at Georgie. "—until it died of shame."

They laugh at his stories too. He can never tell a tale horrible enough to scare them away. Mrs. Graves does not like it either, when he lies. She chastises him (like the schoolmistress used to), "In America, Pavel, you must only speak the truth or God will know!" Their God must be better than the one orphans pray to before bedtime; their God must be as fierce as a Tzar of old. (Later, in school, he learns that there is no difference; only different opinions.)

Pavel is many things but afraid is not one of them. So he opens his eyes wide, blinks, and tells Mrs. Graves "Yes, Ma'am." She likes that, his expressions. Thinks he is cute and innocent as a puppy. (Her words, Pavel laughs to himself.) He can be a puppy, who knows nothing. He can be well-trained too.

His name is Pavel Graves. He grows up, long-limbed and pale like paper. He lives with the Graves' family for a total of eight years. There are good days, times when he thinks he is one of their own and feels loved. The fall that Georgie leaves for state university, Pavel is the happiest. Then Lauren follows one year later, to an art school, and Pavel is finally the sole child of two adoring parents.

Accept they are not adoring, not really. Mrs. Graves went "back to work" before Pavel turned thirteen (though the family has lots of money), and he never sees Mr. Graves except on the day they attend church services or take the yearly "family" vacation. Often, Pavel wonders to himself why these people wanted another child—a foreign child—when they already had two. Once, when he was still naïve enough, he asked his new mother. She replied off-handedly, "It is the Christian thing to do."

There are more bad days. Not in the home itself, it's too empty for that, but at school. He attends a Catholic school, does not mind the uniform and is nice to everyone. He is terrible at sports but good at math and science.

He is a heathen.

Russians are heathens and socialist spies.

There is no escape, not from prejudice; not for a child with an accent that he cannot completely dispel (wants to keep, loves about him). There is no haven from the looks of other kids' parents, during school functions. Pavel is that adopted Russian boy who comes from God-knows-where and can never be a true American. (Nevermind what his papers say!)

On career day, the teachers make the students write essays with the topic "What do you want to be?" (A stupid question.) The English teacher reads his short answer, says, "… Pavel, you want to be a scientist?"

"No," he clarifies, "I am a scientist."

She doesn't think he's funny, tells him so. He does not attempt humor, he replies, only truth. That earns him detention. People are so strict, so misunderstanding. Pavel cannot talk about what he wants to be (_he wants to be American_) because it is acknowledging _what he isn't_. So one must say _yes, I am_ and believe it; then the others will follow.

He's fifteen when he decides to run away from the Graves. He is a citizen under United States law after the legal adoption and subsequent years of living in the country. So Pavel decides that he wants to live elsewhere, in a place with better people. America is so large, there must be nicer places.

Actually, it's a man who convinces him of this. A man that starts sitting with him after school on the bench outside of the public library. At first, Pavel is surprised and wary. Strangers are uncommon in this small town; and this man does qualify as strange. His smile is too big and his clothes are too dark and thread-bare. But he speaks with an accent that Pavel has longed to hear—heavy, foreign, like his own.

The man asks, innocently enough, "Do you like your family?"

Pavel smiles back and agrees. Their first conversation is short because Pavel does not feel comfortable. The stranger, who notices, introduces himself. "My name is Adam."

"Pavel."

"Nice to meet you, Pavel." Then Adam takes his leave. That soothes Pavel's worry, though he does pack up his books quickly and go home.

They encounter one another in the next three months at random intervals. Adam seems trustworthy enough; calls himself a musician. The man never invites Pavel anywhere or acts suspicious. Eventually Pavel is glad for a listening ear. He talks about his adopted family, the wonder of being in such a rich country; underneath it all are the unspoken words of heartache and the loneliness of an outsider.

Adam seems to understand well. He says that he lives with people like Pavel, people that are not accepted in society though they have ever right to be; they travel across the country as a family, playing small concerts to earn money and doing odd jobs. At first, Pavel is skeptical. But on the day that Adam brings a beautiful brown-haired girl named Irina to meet him, Pavel is smitten. Irina charms him with her lilting voice and they three talk for hours. Pavel begins to visit them, listen to their songs and hear other interesting tales (like his own). They praise him, "You're smart, Pavel. You can say anything with that baby face of yours and people will eat out of your hand!"

After the fourth month, Adam announces that he is leaving town; his "family" needs to move on. Pavel is welcome to join them.

"And tell no one."

Pavel goes with them, slips away in the dead of night like a forgotten ghost.

* * *

Two years later finds him desolate in the state of Georgia trying to sell himself to any stranger for a few dollars. He catches one such fellow, snatching his arm from a dark shadow.

"Hello there, Sir. Cold night."

The man stops, looks at him. Through him. "Evening, son."

Pavel has learned by then not to stutter, to draw out certain words in his accent like bait. "Could kept you warm tonight," he offers.

The man is old, as Pavel prefers. The older, the better; less chance of stamina or the strength to damage him permanently. Finally, he gets an answer.

"I've got a place."

Pavel nods. (Beggars cannot be choosers.)

That's how he winds up at Fleet Heights. This man, a Dr. Phillip Boyce, escorts Pavel to "his place" which turns out to be an old three-story facility behind a tall iron-wrought gate. Pavel almost turns to run but Boyce says softly, "There's a bed and food."

He stares at it, considers. "What's the price?"

"Your sanity," the other replies.

Pavel lies smoothly, "Certainly, Sir, I am insane."

Boyce nods once. "Tomorrow, you'll talk to a man named Christopher Pike. Where you go from there is your choice."

That night Pavel has a warm bed to sleep in; it's in a room occupied by another quiet man that he can easily ignore. When morning comes, as he stretches awake to the sound of hushed silence (no groping hands or pain), Pavel decides that he'll do what he can to stay for a little while longer. If only for the regular meals. It might require a few tall-tales, but hasn't Pavel always been good at those?

Thus he makes himself into Pavel Chekov, liar extraordinaire. It's a satisfying person to be, most days.

When he sees Boyce again, they pretend that they've never met.


	4. Sulu, Hikaru

**Patient's Name: Sulu, Hikaru**

"Then there's Sulu who was a pilot and is still the pilot of Jim's ship […]" – _Never Lost Found_

* * *

Young Hikaru thinks, as he flips through a lovingly ragged comic book, that he should be a superhero. So he sneaks into his father's study, removes one of the beloved katanas from the wall rack (had to stand on pile of books, he's a bit short for his age). Then it's a matter of snitching a blanket from the hall closet and a wide belt from the back of his parent's bathroom door.

They live up high, in an entire half-floor of a tall building of expensive lofts. The balcony is more of a patio, stretching the length of one glassed side. His mother has a special garden at one end and a small make-shift greenhouse which Hikaru pretends, sometimes, is a great big jungle. (In his late adolescence, he'll come to appreciate the greenhouse for what it is and does—and the beauty therein; it'll be his go-to place when days seem bad.)

The boy is smart enough to stay away from the edge—not from fear of heights (he loves being up high) but to avoid upsetting his parents. So he settles for running, leaping and kicking back and forth across the patio, his blanket satisfying catching air and billowing. The sheath is still on the katana (if it gets scratched, he'll be in serious trouble) as Hikaru swings it around and cuts down invisible enemies.

There's also one other thing he settles for; that's scrambling to the top of low brick wall which separates the barbecue pit from all else and jumping out with his arms spread and the katana an arc in the sky. He wants to fly.

Superheroes fly. Hikaru is a superhero. Therefore, he'll fly.

He talks his father into letting him sky-dive when he's sixteen; his father thinks he is going through a phase, will settle down (join the family corporation when he's ready). Hikaru knows different. It's thrilling, the free fall, as he plummets in open air and is no longer bound to the earth. So it's no surprise that the next year, Hikaru Sulu extends his desire a little further. He gets his private pilot's license. That is even better, to see the ground so far below (only tiny dots of life) and still. By then his talk of becoming a pilot is not just fantasy. It's a reality he is living; one he loves every minute of. The first time an engine hick-ups mid-air, his heart jumps but then the training kicks in and he checks a few instruments, decides he'll be okay. There is always danger and unpredictability, but Hikaru has the confidence to believe he can handle it.

At the age of twenty-one, he is a pilot of small runner planes used for medical transport. It makes him feel worth-while, knowing that he helps save lives by doing what he loves. Life is good, even though his father gives him the silent treatment for disrespecting his father's (long-held) wishes and choosing a career not in keeping with the golden plan laid down since his birth.

Then _it_ happens.

Night is closing in and it's cold in Denver, Colorado. Hikaru straps himself into the cockpit, checks his instruments, waiting for the fuel line to be detached from the plane. An ambulance comes barreling down the runway, sirens blaring and red. There's a heart needed in California by early morning for the transplant of a fifteen year-old dying girl. Hikaru vows to himself that he won't let her down.

The plane is almost past the Rockies when it gives a lurch in a strong gust of wind (a front coming in). Hikaru is calm, rights his balance to compensate for the air currents. He's in the zone, counting down what little time they have left to get to the coast. Then a light starts flashing—a warning that makes his heart plummet and the left wing engine cuts out. The rest is a blur, as he does the best he can to get them to a safe spot and control the diving of the plane. The last thing he remembers, right before the crash, is when the terrible ringing in his ears suddenly dies into silence. (Then the plane hits the top of a grove of trees, comes down hard into the earth.)

Hikaru Sulu lives.

The rear of the plane is crumpled and torn apart. One medic dies, impaled on metal; another injured but survives. The heart is gone; the rescue team finds an overturned, half-smashed cooler some distance away from the crash site.

He learns, waking up a week later from a coma, that the girl in California died. His arm is broken, needs three painful surgeries, and is slow to heal; his mind even slower. The first time, two months after the plane went down and Hikaru felt an unimaginable fear, he tries to go back to work but his hands shake too badly and the co-pilot's eyes are all sympathy.

He can't get off the ground and cannot figure out how to make his brain return to the serene state in which it used to live. So he lays at home, in bed, and doped high on pain medication to ease the throbbing of his arm. That is how Hikaru falls asleep, most nights. The medication takes him away. That he dreams about flying and falling, over and over, he tells no one—not even the therapist his mother talks him into seeing.

The doctor says it's okay that he feels so depressed he stays in bed for a day or two at a time. She says it'll pass; his parents pat his hand and tell him it'll be okay. Everyone says the same thing. One night, when he awakes from a dream too blurry to remember, he thinks on their words, cries silently in the dark. His heart says it's not alright, won't be okay ever again.

Two weeks later, he's in his mother's greenhouse, slowing scraping through dirt as she tends an orchid when the urge to get into a plane and _fly_ strikes him out-of-the-blue. He drops the trowel, tells her, "I want to go flying today."

She smiles at him, "If you call up Manny's, you can probably schedule a short flight tomorrow morning." Manny's is a local, private airfield with two hangars—the place where Hikaru took his first flight lessons.

But that's not good enough. It has to be _right then_; he feels like the world will collapse otherwise. So he returns her smile and says, "I'm going out there now."

Manny—a friend of his father's and a long-time friend of his own since he was a teenager—won't let him use a plane. They argue about it for over an hour, Hikaru riding high on a wave of anger. Manny explains that he doesn't have any available, that Hikaru ought to wait until he or a buddy can go up with him.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter!" Hikaru screams. "I'm not some fresh-faced idiot, damn you, Manny. Let me go up!"

His reactions are crazy, out of the ordinary; Manny tries to calm him down, tell him he's worked up for no good reason. Hikaru doesn't care, only thinks about getting off this earth that's binding him. In the end, he waits until Manny turns his back and then makes a break for the hangar in the distance. Inside is a small plane, much like the one he crashed, and he tries to force the door open.

Manny and two of his crew manage to pull him off the plane; it takes a good hard punch to his jaw to put him down, and he lands on his bad arm. The pain is sharp, like a knife cutting through layers that had fogged his mind. It's all Hikaru can do, panting on the ground and listening to his mentor tell him "Just get the fuck off my field, Sulu."

They say it's being cooped up so long (earthbound) that made him snap like that. They say—his family and doctor—that perhaps he is ready to fly again. Manny, however, won't speak to him; Hikaru never attempts to go back there.

He manages to get a plane into the air before his whole body starts vibrating like a tightly pulled string. The co-pilot has to take them down, and Hikaru cannot find his initial sense of elation. It's dissipated as if he'd never felt it. He spends the next four days moping about his apartment—refusing to see anyone. Because, he realizes, it's still not okay. He takes his pain medication and sleeps for hours on end.

That's how the pattern emerges. He'll stay reclusive and uncaring for days until the need to fly hits him hard enough to prompt living again. Those moments last longer and longer, each time he thinks it means he's ready to take to the air again, to retrieve his old life. He no longer sees the concern lining his mother's face when he bursts into his parent's loft and announces, "Today! I can do it today, I swear!" There is only the euphoria of being healed and the itch to fly.

His body doesn't cooperate with his brain. He sweats and his stomach continues to roil once he's in the cockpit; sometimes he gets physically sick after take-off. It kills a part of him every time, and he feels like he's suffocating. So he goes home, tells people to go the fuck away and cannot find the will to make himself a bowl of cereal in the morning.

His mother comes over during these periods, holds his face between her hands as she whispers, "Love, there's something wrong with you. Let me help."

Eventually, he agrees that he wants help—during one of the bad times—and ends up poked and prodded by several different people. He has to keep a journal and rate his level of happiness, once in the morning and once in the evening. This takes months, the evaluation and appointments. They try several drugs, attempt to wean him off his painkillers. (He starts buying a black-market replacement, which he keeps secretly; they help him sleep.)

His friends stop checking in on him; his mother worries constantly and his father won't talk about Hikaru's problems at all. The world shrinks down to a narrow cycle of emotions. It's as if he has forgotten other feelings, like simple comfort or mild annoyance. There is no middle ground, only drama that won't stop and sucks him in like a blackhole. Sometimes he's aware of it, how he is acting; other days, there is no room for introspection.

_Bi-polar disorder._

They try to soften the blow to his family by explaining that it is likely a genetic disposition triggered by an intense life event. Hikaru thinks, then, about almost dying—the sounds of screams from the medics echoing in the early dawn—and wants to laugh hysterically.

"Can you help me?" he asks instead.

"Yes," everyone promises. "Yes, Hikaru, we will help you."

Except his father. The man thinks solely of shame, contacts a lawyer and an old friend by the name of Dr. Puri. Hikaru's life-that-was slips away with one phone call. His father escorts him to Georgia and tells his only son, from the inside of a dark-tinted company car (while Hikaru is motionless in the hands of two white-coat men), "Do not contact us until you have control of yourself."

Dr. Puri's greeting is "Mr. Sulu, welcome to Fleet Heights. We will take excellent care of you."

As weeks progress into years, Hikaru has a moment or two of lucidity which almost brings him to his knees. He realizes _Oh God,_ _I am not getting better_ and knows the taste of true despair. Then the moment passes and he is consumed (and lost) again.

_-Fini_

* * *

**This series is complete. Spock's back-story shall remain untold except through snippets elsewhere; he's enigmatic, the Captain's Vulcan is. ;)**

Side Note. Here's the chronological order of patients' arrivals at Fleet Heights (first to most recent):  
-Scotty  
-Jim  
-Sulu  
-Uhura  
-Chekov  
-Spock (during Jim's one-year absence)  
-McCoy

There is approximately a five-to-six year gap between Jim's arrival and Sulu's. After that, the crew begins to collect rather quickly. :)

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
